Stephanie Lessing

If I learned nothing else from my trip to L.A., I will
never leave flight arrangements to the last minute, ever again. Never, ever, ever. Because of my previous cavalier attitude toward planning ahead, I
now know what it’s like to make-out with two strange men at the same time.

Two strange, hairy, disgusting men. 

At least that’s what it felt like while I was wedged
between them for six hours, in seat 6B all the way from Newark to LAX. For six hours, one of them snored, even
though he was wide-awake and the other one had the same breath as my eleventh
grade English teacher. I remember my
teacher’s breath perfectly, every molecule of it, but I never dreamed I’d have to relive it for six hours straight
with no means of escape.

When I first caught sight of my seat assignment, I
thought to myself, “I can get out of this. No one deserves this kind of torture.” And immediately I began to outline a plan that I thought was fool
proof. I put my suitcase in the
overhead storage compartment and flung my handbag onto the middle seat, neatly
avoiding eye contact with either of the hairy men. I put my hand on my throat and walked down the aisle to the
flight attendant.

“Um…Hi. . .
Excuse me. . . I know you’re very busy but I have a terrible problem.”

“What’s your problem?” she asked, one eyebrow up. A bad sign, but I’m very good at pretending
I don’t notice deliberately suspicious facial expressions. I’m a lot like a door-to-door salesman in
that way.

“My problem is that I need to change my seat.”

“I’m sorry, but this flight is full.”

Another
person might have left it at that.

“There’s not even one aisle seat left? Because the truth is I’m very ill.”

“I’m sorry, but every seat is taken.”

“Well, regardless, I think you should know that I’m
probably going to throw up soon.”

“Why don’t you use the bathroom then?”

“Oh, I’m not ready to throw up yet. I’m probably going to throw up in a little
while. That’s why I don’t think a
middle seat is right for me. It’s not
fair to the other passengers. I think you
should switch me with someone.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t think anyone would be willing to
give up their seat at this time. As a matter of fact, you should be seated as
well. We need to prepare for take off.”

“Don’t you think that if you explained my situation
someone might want to help me?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Fine,” I said. “I just hope I can hold out.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“A glass of water? What the hell for? I can even
move my arms in that seat.”

Eventually I sat down and apologized to both men, in case
they heard me trying to get out of sitting next to them.

I settled into my seat and tried to imagine myself
somewhere else. “Pretend you’re Kim or
Jesse,” I said to myself, “And that
you’re just having a normal day at school. Pretend you just sat down in homeroom and lunch is only in four
hours. 

I tried, believe me I tried, but they were both using
their armrests so I had to keep my hands under my thighs. And the more I tried to hold my breath, the
more they breathed like there was no tomorrow. It was so intimate and repulsive, I felt like crying. 

I tried counting to 60, 360 times, but that never works,
so I picked up my book, opened it to page 200 and placed it over my face. 

Every time the flight attendant passed by, I tried to
make a nauseated face so she wouldn’t think I was faking, but I could already
tell she was talking to her fellow attendants about me behind my back.

I don’t know how I made it until the movie, but somehow I
managed. And I was happy to see that they
were playing, “Click,” a movie I hadn’t seen! I was really enjoying it at first. I even laughed out
loud at one point, but then the flight attendant passed by so I pretended my
little chortle was the beginning of a coughing attack. As soon as she was gone, the smile returned
to my face and I even nudged the guy on my left a few times, conspiratorially,
because he was laughing too! I was
actually having fun. So much so that I
had to stop myself from linking arms with the two hairy men. Until, all of a sudden, Adam Sandler was in
the hospital. Out of nowhere! The movie became a horror show. And the son was so nice to Adam, despite his
failure to be a good father. I just
couldn’t take it. I think I might have even said, “Please Adam. You can’t die. Please don’t leave me!” out loud. 

Suddenly I felt a pat on my shoulder and there was that
damn flight attendant again, with a couple of tissues. 

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes, I mean, no. I think I’m still sick.”

“Would you like a glass of water?” she asked me. Somehow I think she was being sarcastic
though. 

“It’s the movie,” I said, sobbing, coming clean.

“I know,” she said. “It’s very said.”

“Am I the only one crying out loud?” I asked, looking
around.

She patted me on the shoulder and walked away. I kicked myself for not using her attention
better. I could have gotten an extra
snack or something.

By the time the movie was over, I was a total mess. Tears and God knows what else was all over
my face and I think I even peed a little, I was so emotional.

I turned to look at the guy next to me to see if he was
crying too, but then I realized he hadn’t even been watching the movie. He had an episode of “The Simpsons” playing
on his laptop. And to think I nudged
him.

When the flight was over, I looked over at my two
husbands and wanted to say something. Anything. Maybe something
like, “Sorry for not speaking to you
for six hours” or “Call me!” But
nothing came out of my mouth. I felt
like an ungrateful houseguest but they didn’t seem to mind seeing me go.

To be continued. . .

 

Remember
the character, Ali, in “She’s Got Issues?” And remember how “She’s Got Issues” is purely fiction? Yeah, well I was lying and the good news is
that I’m going to see Ali in two days. Two days! In L.A. Because I’ll be at that film festival that I
keep reminding you about.

The
truth is her name is Cindy and she’s meeting me at the rooftop of the
Penninsula Hotel on Friday. If you want
her autograph, and you should want her autograph, email me and I’ll tell you
what time we’re going to be there. If
you can’t make it, for whatever crazy reason, I’ll post pictures of her after
my trip- if I can work Kim’s camera- so you can see what she looks like in
person, a mere twenty years later. Twenty years isn’t that much by the way. You’ll see. 

WWW.LOVEOFREADING.COM

Check this out today. It’s a three day on-line book fair hosted by FSB Associates.

And come see me in L.A!! I’ll be at the Luxe Hotel in Beverly Hills at 7Pm signing books. Part of the La Femme Film Festival.

If you can’t find me, check the bathroom. I tend to hang out there a lot when I don’t know anyone.

http://www.stephanielessing.com/wwwloveofreadin/

September 27

For
those of you, Susan Henderson and Ashley Blake, who enjoyed my movie
reviews, I’ve got great news. I’m still sick. I did, however, muster up
the strength to walk my dog this morning, which means I’m getting
better. I’m about to turn on the television so check in later for more
reviews.

 The only reason I bothered to get out of bed
is because I wanted everyone to know I have the flu and how much I don’t
recommend it. Feel free to send me all sorts of sympathetic notes. I love when people feel sorry for me.

The
good news is that I outlined an entire book on Saturday because the only thing
I could move was my hand. It’s a
bizarre book, I admit, but like I said, I’m very ill.

I
also had the opportunity to watch the following movies, any and all of which
you should rent as soon as possible. I
will give a very short review of each of them to help you choose.

The Gunmen – He was cuter than her.

The
Sound and The Fury – The King and I

Lassie
– Not believable but I cried

The
Grapes of Wrath –I would have killed myself

Love
and Sex (I saw this one twice by accident) – She’s cuter than him.

I
can’t remember the others, that’s how sick I am, but I’m going back to my bed
now to watch some more. I’m so glad we
got Channel 190!! But of course, I’m
still very sad about how sick I am.

I
find it disturbing that someone called our President the devil, and what’s
worse is that it was said with absolute certainty. I mean, how can you prove something like that?

So
I’m walking Mikki, my yellow lab, like I always do, in the woods, with my
friend, the cop, who has a Bagel, which is a combination of a beagle and basset
hound and along comes this woman. She’s tall and blonde and apparently she
appeared to be carrying food, because Mikki ran right up to her and jumped on
her, with muddy paws, and the woman was pissed.

So
I ran over to her and said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Look at your pants.” I
say that same thing every time Mikki jumps on someone. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Look at your pants.” I say those words so often, sometimes I just
say them to myself, in my head, for no
reason.

And
then the person usually says, “Don’t worry. These are old pants.” And that’s
the end of it. Because after all, we’re
in the woods, a place that is known for harboring all sorts of dirt.

“Zis
is unacceptable!” the woman said– in the same accent Hitler always liked to
use.

“Huh?”
I said.

“Zis
is unacceptable! I vill not tolerate
zis!” she said.

“God,
what a bitch,” I whispered to my friend –the cop. He was

understandably
maintaining a safe distance from both of us. Not only was she clearly a nut but there’s a huge sign at the entrance
to the nature center that says, “NO UNLEASHED DOGS!” along with a list of fines
for all sorts of crimes one might commit against nature, such as letting an
animal run free or eating. My friend
the cop and I break the law together every day and we were about to get busted.

“Do
you have any idea how dangerous zis is? Look at my pants!” she said. I’m so used to saying that last line, I was
stunned. Meanwhile, my dog was still
jumping all over her and I made no attempt to get her to stop. I have no idea how to stop a dog from
jumping. I usually just wait for her to
get sick of whomever she’s jumping on. I’ve always been more of a laissez-faire disciplinarian. I feel horrible telling animals (as well as
children) that they’ve done something wrong, so I tend to pretend I don’t
notice. This has proven to be a very
effective means of raising my daughter. My son is only thirteen so I’m not sure how he’s going to turn out
yet. Fingers crossed. As far as the dog, everything had been
working out beautifully until she jumped on this particular woman.

“I
am going to report you!’ she said.

The
cop backed up a little further and gently clipped the leash onto his dog’s
collar. Mine was still jumping.

And
then I realized something.

“Eva?”
I said.

“Yes,
my name is Eva. How do you know my
name?” the woman said.

“You
used to be my housekeeper,” I said, noticing that she had changed her hair
color dramatically. Not just a few
highlights but a real change – from jet black to platinum.

“I
don’t care!” she said, her boots clicking at the heels.

“Wow!
You look great!” I said, “Do you live around here now?”

“The
issue is zee dog!” she said continuing to reprimand me.

“My
dog is very friendly, that’s all. She just wanted to say hello.”
”Look at my pants!” she said, again.

“I’m
sorry about your clothes but you’re walking in the woods one day after a rainstorm. You should have anticipated that you might
get a little dirty — even if a dog didn’t jump on you. We’re in a nature center. Animals live here and come here to play. The
leash rule is a dumb one. Unless a dog
is vicious, it should be allowed to walk around freely. Who makes up these absurd rules anyway?”

“The
town,” the cop whispered to me.

I
stood there for a minute wondering what I should say to this woman who used to
work for me and who I often discovered wearing my clothes when I came home from work. One time when I walked into my room, she was sitting at my
dressing table carefully applying my lipstick and all I could think to say was,
“Is that a huge herpes on your lip?” She assured me that it was just a mild fever blister and not really
contagious.

“Oh good.” I said, “And feel free to keep
that lipstick. It looks great on you.”

I
fired her one afternoon when I came home from a walk with my daughter and Eva
was practicing her “K” turns in my new car, in my driveway. She was hoping to get a driver’s license
some day.

As
my mind wandered, Eva turned and walked away. I watched her in the distance,
thinking her pants looked familiar.

As
soon as Eva was out of sight, the cop turned to me and said, “That’s the freak
who takes pictures of unleashed dogs and takes them to the police.”

“But
you’re the police,” I reminded him.

“Not
in this town,” he reminded me.

“Oh
right. Now what?”

“We’ll
see,” he said.
”Maybe I should just go to the town hall and turn myself in right now. I hate waiting to find out if I’m trouble.”

“Don’t
worry about it. I don’t think she got
your picture.”

But
I was worried. I was sick about
it. She was so mean to me. Why would a person walk in the woods taking
pictures on their cell phone of unleashed dogs? Why not just walk somewhere else if you don’t like dogs? I decided she’d been bitten as a child and
this was her way of dealing with it. I
convinced myself that she was plagued by nightmares and all sorts of phobias
and that if this was her way of getting through life, then who am I to judge.

I
put Mikki on the leash and the cop and I continued walking.

“Wasn’t
she so mean? What the hell is wrong
with her? This is why I don’t like people! They’re all insane. Did I say anything insulting to her? I hope I
didn’t. Did I? I was right about everything, right?” I
asked the cop.

“Don’t
think about it,” the cop said.

“I’m
not thinking about it. I’m obsessing on it.”

Just
then I could see Eva, in the distance, walking back towards us, with her phone
open. The cop and I pulled our dogs
aside by their leashes and told them to sit so Eva could pass by. Mine stood.

“When
did I work for you? It must have been a very long time ago,” she said, coming
closer, phone perched. “I’m sorry I said I didn’t care. I was very emotional.”

“Oh,
me too. I’m so sorry, too!” I said,
trying not to stare at her phone.

I
guess at that point her plan was to show whatever photo she could get to the
police and say, “Even zough zee dog is on zee leash in zis particular shot,
look at my pants!”

I
didn’t have a chance to answer her.

“I
mean, it must have been ten years ago,” she continued. “I’ve since gotten
married and bought a house. A very nice
house in Closter. And I’ve been to
Sedona.”

“What?”

“Sedona. I mediate.  I’ve been very into mediation. Actually I’m a lifetime member of CGI.”

”Oh, I know that place! It’s amazing, isn’t it?” I said, kissing her ass.

For
those of you who don’t live around here, CGI is a Korean owned spa and yoga
center. Only idiots, like myself, become members. The place is a total scam. I’ve long stopped going and got most of my money back. I didn’t dare mention any of this to my new
friend Eva.

“It’s
very expensive to be a member,” Eva continued.

“Oh,
I can imagine. Well, you must be very
happy here now that you’re married with a house and your trip to Sedona and
what not. I’m so happy for you!”

Would you like me to carry
your cell phone for you? Or perhaps I could have your pants dry-cleaned as well
as all of your clothing?

“I
live a very nice life. I’m no longer
doing housekeeping. I forgot I even had zat job.”

Oh that’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.

“Great!”

“As
a matter of fact, I work at Saks.”
”Wonderful. That’s a very nice
store. I love Saks.”

And
you. I love you. Please don’t tell on me.

“Why
don’t you come by some time and visit me? I work at zee La Mer counter. I’ll give you some samples.”

“Oh,
definitely. I’ll come today!”

And for the rest of my life — if that will
make you happy.

We
hugged and parted ways. The cop had
been quiet as a mouse the whole time.

“Nice
come back,” he said when she was clear out of sight.

“So
what do you think will happen now?” I asked him.

‘I
think you’ll probably get a summons in a few days.”

I heard from my old pal
Jennifer O’Connell today. She was
eating a chocolate chip cookie and thought of me. How odd. When she asked
me what I was doing, I said, “Oh, just editing some stuff,” but I think she
might have suspected something. It got really quiet all of a sudden on my end
as soon as I found the remote. Jennifer
writes 30 books at a time so I tried not to let on how much I’m not writing
these days. I’m not one to do two
things at once and Jesse’s Bar Mitzvah has been consuming me pretty much from
the minute I wake up until I go to bed. All the planning is done. Now I just sit around and daydream about
it. This takes the whole day and a good
part of the evening.

I imagine him up there, speaking Hebrew and trying not to laugh
with his friends in the front row. And then my mind always cuts to the party
–where I envision myself in the coat closet all night. I was hoping to be a part of the festivities
but Jesse made it clear that he would like me to hide for most of the evening.

“Where do you want me to
go?” I asked.

“You don’t have to
leave. Just don’t dance or anything.”

I really like dancing, but I
like Jesse more, and I get why he would prefer if I wait in the car. It’s because even though, technically, he
will be a man on September 16, he’s a thirteen-year-old man. What thirteen-year-old man wants to see his fully-grown
mom partying? I certainly can’t think of any.

I’ve been to Bar Mitzvahs that were mistakenly designed to impress
adults with very little attention paid to what a thirteen year old boy wants on
his big day. I’ve heard the kids come home from these events complaining about
the adults’ long, boring speeches or that there was no room for the kids on the
dance floor or that all the adults were drunk out of their minds and making
fools of themselves. And so, instead of being insulted or thinking my son
doesn’t love me, I’ve decided to let him have his space and his own celebration
with his friends, not mine. These
parties are supposed to be for children.

That’s why I will have my
own party –in the bathroom. Any of the
few relatives who I did invite are welcome to join me in there. I’ll be in the stall with the loud music and
the bottles of tequila all over the floor, dancing, reading my speech.

Remember that "EVERYTHING I NEEDED TO KNOW ABOUT BEING A GIRL I LEARNED FROM JUDY BLUME"   anthology I told you about?  I just found out some of us are going to be doing a signing at Edgartown Books in  Martha’s Vineyard Memorial Day of 2007.  Seems a little premature to mark that down on your calendars, but hey, time flies and since I don’t have a "news & events" page (I didn’t want one in case there was no news), I’ll be updating you periodically on my blog.  So there you have it.  The book will be out around the same time as "miss understanding," (October/Novemberish) I"m pretty sure.  I should double check these things before I post them, but I’m almost positive, and just so you know, the Judy Blume book is being published by Pocket Books.   But here’s the big news, Judy Blume has  a house on Martha’s Vineyard, so hopefully she’ll pop in.  I know I would pop in if someone wrote a whole book about me.

More news:  I’m number one in trade paperback sales at Hudson News last week for "She’s Got Issues" and number nine overall.  How wierd is that?  I almost forgot about that book. 

I think that’s it for now.

Girl Without Eyebrows

 Now be
careful here because my favorite girl in the world is missing her eyebrows and
you don’t want to mess with me. The
only reason I mention her is because the no eyebrow controversy has been around
since the days of cigarette holders and I feel it’s my duty to publicly defend
girls without eyebrows once and for all. 

 First of
all, not having eyebrows, although frightening-looking, isn’t as bizarre as it
seems. It could happen to anyone. Everyone gets a little carried away with the tweezer now and then. The
only difference between the girl with no eyebrows and the rest of us is that
she went all the way in her quest for perfection. You know how it is when you’re sitting there trying to reshape
your arch and you’re thinking, “If I just take out one more, I’ll have created
the world’s first perfect brow!” So you
pluck that one tiny, extra hair and now you have a little bald patch.

 “One
hair,” you’re thinking. “One freakin’
hair and now my life is ruined.” 

 But that’s
what we pluckers fail to realize, one eyebrow hair covers a lot more ground
than that for which we give it credit. They’re much longer than they look when they’re still attached to our
heads, and if one of them gets bent, it messes up everything. The girl with no eyebrows just couldn’t take
it anymore. She somehow convinced
herself that the best way to solve things would be to start over with a clean
slate. This doesn’t make her a bad person. Impulsive, perhaps, but not bad. If you’re a girl with no eyebrows, listen to me. It’s not your fault. 

 The truth
is there’s more than one person in my life who doesn’t have eyebrows, and they
are, I admit, both related to me. They will remain nameless, but I will say
this: One of them was senile and she had no idea what she was doing. However, after she’d committed the
unthinkable, she did have the wherewithal to notice the difference between her
and everyone else and so she took to drawing a thin, clown like tee-pee over
each eye in lieu of eyebrows.

 The other
person in my life who went the extra mile was born with one eyebrow about a
half inch higher than the other. 

Again, not her fault. 

Raise one eyebrow. It makes you look suspicious, right? Well, that’s how she felt all the time so she just went ahead and
tweezed off the offending brow. This is
a true story by the way. 

It immediately became apparent that she had created
a problem and there went the other brow. The thing is once you tweeze off your eyebrows completely, they never
really grow back. It’s almost as if they know what you did. You get a few
strays here and there, but you never get the full sweep.

 As if
this isn’t bad enough, this poor girl now has to create life-like brows on her
forehead every day for the rest of her life, with a pencil. You try to draw
hair on your face and then tell me this isn’t a real problem.

 And then,
after she spends hours trying to draw herself eyebrows, she has to ask everyone
in her family if they are on straight. She asks anyone who walks by. One by one they all lie. If anyone is stupid
enough to say that they are not perfect, she’ll rub them both off and start all
over. She has been late everyday of her
life for everything for decades because of this. If she does show up on time
for something, it’s usually because she forgot to put them on.

 My point
being, as always, there’s a reason for everything. And who among us can honestly say we’ve never ventured into
dangerous territory when it comes to removing hair we might very well want back
some day. I rest my case.